I don't remember exactly how old I was that Christmas morning. Maybe ten... or somewhere around there. Funny thing is... I remember the box. It was long. Kind of triangular. There wasn't a name on it, and I had no idea who it belonged to.
Finally there was only one present left. Dad picked it up, looked over at me with that unmistakable grin and said, “This one's for Billy Boy.” I looked at Mom. She was smiling just as big as he was. I don't think either one of them was any more excited about that guitar than they were about watching me open it.
Inside was a Silvertone guitar Dad had bought at Sears. It wasn't a very good guitar. The strings were high, it drifted out of tune, and learning on it wasn't easy. But it was mine. I still have it today. Guitars come and go, but that one never did.
A few years later a family friend who sold guitars introduced me to a Japanese-made Yamaki twelve-string. Now... that was a guitar. I wish I still had it today. That old Yamaki sounded pretty damn good. The Silvertone made me want to learn. The Yamaki made me want to play.
Somewhere along the way my brother and his friends started asking me to play with them. One day I was listening from the edge of the circle. The next... I was sitting in it with a guitar in my hands. That was a pretty big deal to me. The more I played, the more doors seemed to open.
By the time I was fourteen I'd taken guitar lessons, piano lessons, played recitals and competitions, and spent summers traveling with our church youth group playing at camps and church events. Playing on a stage wasn't new anymore.
I'd spent seventh and eighth grade at Bridger Junior High. Then the district changed the boundaries. Most of my friends, including my best friend, went to Truman. I went to William Chrisman for ninth grade. Once again... I was the new kid.
One afternoon I noticed a poster in the hallway. Talent Show Tryouts. I'd like to tell you I entered because I dreamed of becoming a musician. Truthfully... there was a girl.
There was one thing I knew that almost nobody else at William Chrisman knew. I'd already done this. Recitals. Competitions. Church concerts. Youth camps. Standing on a stage with a guitar in my hands wasn't new to me. It was a little secret I carried around in my back pocket. I knew I could do this. I just hoped she'd notice.
I tried out with Dan Fogelberg's 'Looking for a Lady.' The judges loved it—except for one lyric they considered 'inappropriate.' They asked if I'd change it. I couldn't. I didn't think it was my place to rewrite Dan Fogelberg, so I changed songs instead. It was one of the first times I learned that sometimes life changes the song. You don't always get a vote. What matters is how you adapt. I still don't care much for the word 'inappropriate.'
So I chose John Denver's 'My Sweet Lady.' There happened to be one particular girl I hoped would hear every word.
Backstage I tuned the Yamaki, loosened up my fingers, and played a few quiet chords. Playing for church audiences on tour had become easy. Those audiences only knew me for one evening. We'd finish the concert, pack up, and by the next morning those audiences were gone. This was different. These were kids I'd see in the hallways tomorrow morning.
I peeked through the curtain. I wasn't looking at the crowd. I was looking for her. Somehow she'd found a seat right in front of the stage. She looked nervous. When they announced my name I heard applause mixed with whispers. I walked onto the stage, sat on a tall three-legged stool, and heard someone whisper, 'He's playing a twelve-string.' At fourteen... I thought that was pretty cool.
I rested the guitar on my knee, looked at her, took one last breath, and played the opening notes. The whispers disappeared. The room became absolutely still. I looked right at her and sang, 'Tell me, lady...'
I sang the first verse... then the second. Somewhere between that first chord and the last something changed. I wasn't wondering anymore whether she'd notice me. I knew she was listening. She never looked away. During the quieter parts of the song I could have sworn I saw tears beginning to well up in her eyes. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I didn't.
When I played the last note, I knew the song had done exactly what I'd hoped it would do. She knew who I was. She'd seen a side of me very few people ever had. And judging by the smile on her face... I think she liked it.
Let's just say... John Denver said exactly what I couldn't.
That's what great songs do. They help us say things we don't quite know how to say ourselves. Back then I didn't know why songs mattered so much. I just knew they did.
That day... I thought I was singing John Denver's song. I had no idea... one day I'd want my own songs to do the very same thing.
The next morning I climbed onto the school bus carrying my Yamaki. We'd been invited to perform again, this time for the high school. As I stepped onto the bus everyone started clapping. It was a little embarrassing. Playing for the high school students felt different, but it went just as well.
Looking back...
I thought I'd gone on that stage hoping one girl would notice me.
Instead...
I found something I'd carry with me for the rest of my life.
